


Sins of the Flesh

by pocketmouse



Category: Torchwood
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-19
Updated: 2009-07-19
Packaged: 2017-10-02 10:58:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocketmouse/pseuds/pocketmouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Owen needs something he can feel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sins of the Flesh

**Author's Note:**

> Written for kink_bingo, bruises and bitemarks, so warnings for rough sex.  
> Spoilers up through Out of Time and Combat.

Contrary to popular belief, Owen Harper was not a particular fan of one-night stands. Not that there was anything _wrong_ with a quick, anonymous fuck: in and out, no questions asked, no consequences. But they had their time and their place. He liked heading into something knowing what he was going to get, and getting what he wanted.

He stared at his flat. Aside from a line on his credit card statement and a handful of items locked up in storage at the Hub, there was no evidence that Diane Holmes had ever set foot in 21st-century Cardiff, let alone spent time in this flat.

He could just make out his reflection in the glass panes overlooking the Bay. His figure was superimposed over the Opera House. He looked thin, faded, like a ghost.

He had enough ghosts already. He needed something more tangible than that.

But nothing ever stayed.

* * *

Torchwood wasn’t really big on the undercover gigs. Hard to be when they were the type of secret organization that went around with their logo printed on the side of their vehicle. But Owen didn’t particularly care about getting the job done so much as getting away from anything familiar.

Though with his luck, it should’ve figured that something would find its way in. The tosser from the club the night before was up in his face, and Owen didn’t even need the threat of him breaking his cover to lay into him. He was almost disappointed when Mark joined in.

The fight felt good, his heart beating fast and everything snapping to sharp attention, color and shape coming into focus suddenly, like everything had been washed out for days. There was blood on his lips and the salt taste was good.

He was still staring at his reddened knuckles when Mark dragged him out of the bar.

* * *

The first time Owen had sex with a bloke was when he was eighteen, and taking a course at Cambridge. There was a special combined platform on immunology and genetics, with guest lecturers from across the globe, and only a few students from other universities were invited to sit in. Owen had used his position as top of his class to get in, and he’d gone out after the first day of lectures to celebrate in town.

Unfortunately, it turned out to be a footie night, and it being Cambridge, it wasn’t too long before the whole pub was in an uproar. Owen found himself pulled into the fray when three larger blokes in Cambridge blues ganged up on another skinny fellow, who looked like he couldn’t fight to save his life. What the hell he was doing in a pub at all, then, Owen didn’t want to know.

The bloke could actually hold his own well enough, but the look in his eyes still said he appreciated the help, and when they ducked out into the night via the back as the coppers came in the front, he shook Owen’s hand firmly and introduced himself as David.

David had a black eye and a loose tooth, but Owen’s stomach ached and there was a chance he’d be pissing blood tomorrow, so he accepted David’s invitation to crash the night, and spent the semester learning how to suck cock.

* * *

The alley behind the bar could have been anywhere, the air full of the smell of piss and garbage, a cool tint suggesting that they might be near water, but for this waterlogged country that meant next to nothing. Mark pushed him back against the wall, into the sodium-yellow light from the street. His fingers unerringly found the tender flesh on Owen’s arm where he’d been whipped around, his other hand moved to the pressure point along Owen’s jaw and pressed his head up, leaving his throat vulnerable.

Owen held still, locking his eyes on the other man. Mark’s pupils were blown and his breathing was uneven. The details of his dark complexion were lost to the shadows of the night, but his eyes glittered. Then he leaned in, inhaling deeply through his nose.

“After a fight like that, most blokes would be afraid.” His teeth were close to Owen’s ear. “You don’t smell afraid at all.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” Owen said dryly. But everything was still sharp and clear, and if anything, he felt _alive_. He could feel Mark’s erection pressed against him and he rocked his hips.

Mark stepped back sharply. “Not here.” He looked around with disgust at the rubbish littering the alley. Owen raised an eyebrow but nodded as he stepped away from the wall, rubbing the bruises on his arm, feeling them tingle.

* * *

When Owen was twelve, he fell down a half flight of steps at school. It took a month for the bruises to fully heal, because he couldn’t leave them alone, constantly touching them and pressing them, testing the pain like some sort of game. It was a contest against himself, so either way, he won.

* * *

Mark’s flat is modern, sharp, a clean aesthetic that harmonizes with the man himself, and Owen smirks a little, amused to discover something that does discomfort the other man. The world feels solid underneath his feet.

Mark bares his chest, smooth muscle marred by wicked claw marks, and Owen can’t drag his eyes away.

They are both _real_.

Anger sparks through the other man, like a living thing, and it’s attractive, powerful. It’s something Owen can relate to, give in to, lose himself in, and it washes him clean, pummeling him and shaping him into something new.

Maybe not better, but new.

They fuck on the floor of Mark’s kitchen, shattering its cool sterility as Owen unzips his fly and Mark pushes him down. His hands are caught and he impacts chest-first, with a glancing blow to his cheekbone as well. The tile is cool against his dick, and Mark is all heat, slick fingers digging at his arse. That’s all the prep he gets, then fingers are replaced with something bigger, and he’s being expertly fucked, long hard strokes that spear him open.

Owen gasps and curses, trying to get some friction, but Mark has him well pinned. He bucks hard, but Mark presses his head to the floor with one hand — Christ, how did he miss those massive hands? — and bites him sharply, teeth gripping the trapezius muscle, and Owen relents. Mark bites him again, higher up towards his hairline, a sharp nip in clear warning.

But he’s getting into it now, and as Mark hauls Owen up to his knees, Owen can feel the heat blushing across his skin, red tenderness that will darken to purple by tomorrow. Mark’s hand strips the orgasm from him, leaving him trembling and exposed, surprising him with its strength. He’s left passive and wrung out as Mark finishes himself off and pulls out. He feels both empty and energized, like he just lost a fight he didn’t know he was fighting.

Mark runs his teeth over the bite marks, then pushes him away.

“Bathroom’s upstairs.”

* * *

Staring at the Weevil in the cage, Owen feels a spark of familiarity. “When you're up close with it, take a look into its eyes,” Mark orders. His voice is terse. He’s fascinated.

Owen doesn’t care. “Open the door!”

“It's like looking into the darkest recesses of your own soul.”

No. He knows what that’s like.

His blood sings inside him. He knows what he wants.

* * *

When he wakes up in the hospital, the first thing he does is check his memory for gaps. There are none. He’s almost disappointed.

The second thing he does is take inventory of himself. The majority of his upper torso is a mass of ravaged flesh, dark thread stitching together jagged tears left by the Weevil. The bruises in the spaces between are a violet color, tinged with angry red. He presses against them, feeling them. Testing himself.

The bruises on his hips are barely distinguishable from the others, and the place where the Weevil’s teeth sunk in, going for the jugular, are close enough to Mark’s bite that they share the same dressing. He can’t see if they overlap, he can’t contort that far.

Torchwood overwrites everything else. His feeling starts to fade.

Underneath the dressings, he presses slowly against his own flesh.


End file.
